


The Black

by DeathDirt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, M/M, Suicide Attempt, lots and lots of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 21:01:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11260914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathDirt/pseuds/DeathDirt
Summary: Reaper just wants to sleep. Everyone has denied him that.





	The Black

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I wrote this at 1 in the morning, I've been really depressed lately and I don't know why, so I wrote this and just...bleh. Might add more to it later, but for now...meh

It's not like it'll actually hurt him. Reaper's been chugging pills for over a decade now, started doing it before Overwatch fell, and hasn't stopped since. It made the agonizing pain a little easier. It made the pain go away for a little while. Memories faded one by one, blurry until the drugs wore off and they hit him again. By that point he would probably just be downing more pills. Talon had no end to them, so he took whole bottles, emptying them by the hour, entirely uncaring when someone walked in and told him that he should hold off since "supplies were low."

Bullshit. No matter when he went down to the lab, they were always fully stocked. Painkillers, depressants, sedatives, sleep aids, everything he wanted was in those cabinets. No more than a shadow's drift away. And if they really got on his ass about it, hell, Reaper just grabbed several bagfuls and went out to some abandoned, secluded spot to lie around and pretend he would OD any minute.

No, he's tried too many times. He knows it's impossible. No matter how much he wants to some days, it's impossible for him to drift off into the endless sleep he craved.

Damn Angela for denying him that.

Damn Ana for trying to make him think there was anything under the mask worth saving.

Damn McCree for his snide comments whenever they met in the field.

Damn Jack for...everything else.

Reaper reclined in the ratty sofa that he'd settled into while he downed pill after pill. Jack was the real root of his problems. Some days he denied it, told himself that he had a hand in his own demise, but that never lasted more than an hour at a time. It just couldn't. Nothing was all his fault. Parts, sure. His rational mind wouldn't let him blame it _all_ on the rest of the world. But most of it would never be his fault. No, it was everyone else who drove him to this. Angela who brought him back to life after he'd already died. Ana who tried to talk him down from killing. Jack who told him it was all his fault.

He lightly chuckled, throwing back another handful of drugs to dull the ache beginning in his chest. At this point he was just dumping them out without any real thought given to dosage or anything else. He wasn't worth that kind of time. All he wanted was release. Nobody would let him have that again. This was as close as he could get.

The majority of his vision is starting to go fuzzy. If he's lucky, he can pass out. That lets him rest for a little while without the constant ache of his body bugging him. Just to get himself there faster, Reaper lifts a bottle to his lips and tips his head back, almost like he's taking a shot. He's got alcohol, too. He reaches for it, pries off the bottle cap, then slugs the whole thing down in a few quick gulps. It pushes him closer to happy darkness. Something that tastes utterly awful starts to surge into his mouth. Reaper barely has the care to turn his head over the back of the sofa before he realizes he's vomiting. 

Not in his mask, thank God, he left that with Talon, but it doesn't take long for the stench of bile to fill the room as it has many times before. It's not like anything will happen if someone else smells it too. They'll assume he's another drunk or druggie out for his fix. Fine with him. Any dignity he had died with Gabriel Reyes at Zurich.

Finally, he stops. He can barely keep his eyes open now. Won't be much longer. To speed along the process, Reaper grabs three more bottles, all about three-quarters of the way full, and dumps them down his throat in quick succession. He's vomiting again, but the blackness is pulling at him. It's so close... So close.

 

When Reaper wakes, the right side of his face is sticky. His own sick. He's laying in his own sickness. Unsanitary, but he can live with it. It washes off. In front of his face, he's got the last bottle still clutched in a gloved fist. He doesn't care to move. Just lays there, wishing for the comforting black to return. 

He doesn't realize someone else is with him until there's a hand on his face. Reaper doesn't have the capacity to care much, so when his gaze slides up to see the much-hated white hair, white-and-blue jacket, and scar-covered face, he can't really make himself do more than lowly grunt. "Can't believe you're doing this to yourself..." He doesn't want to respond, doesn't need to. Doesn't even care to think about how Jack's found him or why when even Sombra would have trouble finding him.

"Gonna get up or am I going to have to do that too?"

"Fuck off. And where're my damn pills?"

"Got rid of them. If we're doing this, I want to do it when we're both fully awake." Reaper has to laugh at that, turning his gaze back to blankly stare at the hole-riddled walk across from him. The place he'd found suffered badly from the Crisis. Which was why there was nobody living there. "Try. I won't die, no matter what you do. You should do it, though. I might actually feel enough to fight next time you see me." Glancing up, he can see the smug half-smile Jack had kept up until then had fallen. Now he just looked pitying. Fair enough.

Reaper supposed that had been his intent. A pitiable state of a futile suicide attempt. "Why?" He's back to not caring. Would there really be any point in telling him? However, before he can answer his own question, Reaper's talking, tongue loosened by alcohol and drugs. "Because how else am I supposed to get a break from this bullshit? Unlike you, I hurt every second of my...rrgh, it's not even life, what I endure every day. And it's not death. Some abominable spot in between the two." Reaper weakly clenches a fist, fitfully wishing Jack would move his hand from where it had remained on his face.

"So this is what you do?"

"Oh fuck off. You can't tell me that I can fix this with a morning pep talk, unlike your shit. I don't want to fix it. There's nothing that can be _done_ to fix it. So if that's what you plan on saying, then you can go right back to your dumbass base and tell everyone that one of the most feared mercenaries on Earth is a damned hopeless drug addict. It's not like I'll stop. It's not like I'll slow down." 

Reaper chewed his lip, sending lines of dark red down onto the sofa. They soaked in, making pretty near-black spots to further scar the torn furniture. "Gabe... Just don't." He scoffed, finally finding the strength to bat Jack's hand away from him. "Make me, Morrison." He still laid there, sticky with sweat and vomit. Dead things held no dignity. Somewhere off to the side, the clinking of metal made it clear that Jack was making to leave. Reaper still made no move to get up. 

"It hurt." Jesus, when was he going to give up? If everyone had just given up, there would be no Reaper. No lingering pain. No broken hearts. "It hurt when you did this before, but you listened to me then. It still hurts to see you like this, Gabe."

"I'm sure it does." Reaper rolled his eyes. Sure, Jack hated seeing him so compromised and unable to escape. He was sure that as soon as he moved, there would be an unbearable sting on his ass. "Gabe, please... Take this seriously. You're-" reaper had had enough. In a movement too quick for the rest of him, he swung off the sofa and closed his talons around Jack's bare neck. He swayed, but otherwise remained upright. "I'm already _dead_ , Jack. I've _tried_. I try to do this on a weekly basis. You can't tell me not to. You can't...undo my pain. Now stop _acting like it._ You aren't my white knight anymore. You don't bring me anything but pain. If you see me like this again, I suggest you pull some kind of trigger. I don't care if it's on yourself or on me, but fucking do it. See who in the world cares for either one of us."

Reaper released the old soldier, just barely cognizant enough to notice streams of wet from Jack's pretty crystal blue eyes. He hated himself for doing it, but he wiped them away with a clawed thumb. He staggered as he stomped off, though he honestly couldn't say he cared. Let Jack think what he wanted. He didn't care.

He would never care again.


End file.
